In the 1970s, a new kid became known at Cairo’s universities. He was a photography student, but he was also a great singer, and everyone wanted him to perform at their parties.
People liked that he looked different: he dressed casually instead of wearing the formal fashion of classical singers. At once, he looked like any Egyptian and didn’t — his skin was darker than the average northern Egyptian’s, and he wore his hair in voluminous curls.
That is the enticing paradox of Mohamed Mounir: he’s unique, but feels like any Egyptian. From a small village in Nubia, he has become the voice of the streets, both in the capital and the country's most peripheral corners.
With his first album Alemony Eneeky (1977), Mounir ushered in a change that would transform music in Egypt and beyond. His lyrics, sometimes in Arabic and sometimes in Nobiin, were philosophical and political rather than focused only on romance and betrayal. His sound merged traditional Nubian folk with classical Egyptian music, jazz, blues, and reggae without compromising its roots. With his charm and talent, Mounir became the representative of Nubia, a part of Egypt that had thus far been stereotyped and neglected by the mainstream, as well as the rest of the country. That’s why they call him “El Malik” (The King).
The Making of a King
Born in Aswan, Mounir spent most of his childhood in the village of Manshyat Al Nuba. When the Egyptian government under Gamal Abdel Nasser constructed the Aswan High Dam and flooded large parts of Nubian ancestral homeland under what is now Lake Nasser, Mounir’s family was displaced alongside 100,000 to 120,000 people in Egypt and Sudan.
Moving to Cairo gave him the opportunity to study photography and enter the music scene. “Even before he was known, Mounir would sing at weddings and gatherings in the community in Aswan,” Essam Daoud, Mounir's nephew, who was born in Manshyat Al Nuba, tells OkayAfrica. “I remember his first time singing on TV in 1977; we were all waiting for him in front of the TV.”
Eventually, Mounir was introduced to renowned Nubian singer, composer and oud player Ahmed Mounib, famous Egyptian poet Abdel Rehim Mansour and jazz legend Yehia Khalil. These greats of Egyptian music history became his mentors and collaborators, shaping him into a professional recording artist.
“[With their help], he started a music revolution,” says Daoud’s nephew Mustafa Abou Bakr. “He brought Nubian heritage to the Egyptian mainstream and blended it with jazz, reggae and Sudanese folk.” “This cocktail was something completely new, for Nubians and Egyptians,” agrees Daoud.
While he took inspiration from different sonic traditions, Mounir kept Nubian melodies and pentatonic scales at the heart of his songs, piquing curiosity amongst audiences who had never heard anything like it before.
Still, his success was not instant. Nubians have historically been misrepresented and stereotyped as servants in mainstream Egyptian media. “He initially struggled for someone to give him a chance, because of his skin color,” says Daoud. “It was the first time for mainstream Egypt to see someone like him, so [even though he had a loyal following amongst intellectuals and university students] he struggled to get interviews or get played on the radio.”
His third and most popular album, Shababeek (1981), one of the best-selling Egyptian albums of all time, broke down barriers of skepticism and cemented him as the first darker-skinned pop icon in the Arab world.
Shababeek’s innovative blend of genres and exceptional production caught everyone’s attention. On the album, Mounir reflects on his family’s displacement from Aswan to Cairo, but also speaks to the Palestinian cause, the beauty of Black and brown Egypt, and young people’s challenges to adjust in an era of uncertainty and change.
Recently, the debate around Nubians’ right to return to their ancestral homeland flared up again. A group of university students were denied a permit to cultivate land along the shore of Lake Nasser and organized a conference to begin resettling and developing ancestral Nubian lands. Shababeek remains as relevant today as it was in the 1980s.
While Mounir never wanted to be an activist, he’s referred to as a muharrid, a provocateur, or an instigator who uses his music to convey socio-political messages, often promoting and celebrating unity among Egyptians.
Some parts of his rise to fame recall the story of The King of Pop. Mounir had his own “Black or White” moment on “Hadota Masreya,” a song he performed in a film with renowned director Youssef Shaheen in 1982. The lyrics praise the fact that regardless of their class or background, Egyptians live together respectfully. Mounir sings: “I don’t care about your color [...] all I care about is that you’re a human being.”
An Intergenerational Fanbase
For young Egyptians, there simply is no time without Mounir. He has been the soundtrack to their entire lives, a voice that has accompanied them since childhood. “He sang for every situation and every emotion,” says Nubian actor Mariam Hatem Amin. “His voice feels genuine and down-to-earth, not overly polished or manipulated; it feels like one of us.”
“The first song I ever remember listening to was ‘Shita,’” says Dina Ali, a Nubian artist and music video director. “I’m very proud of my taste in music, and I think that’s because of Mama’s continuous playing of Mounir songs all throughout our childhood.”
Her mother, Nadia Abdulghaffar, started listening to Mounir at the age of ten. “He’s the only one for me, literally. I used to videotape all of his videos and performances on TV,” she says. “The Nubian community feels very proud of him. We went to Aswan in January, and his songs are playing in every corner and every home.”
Abdulghaffar has been attending Mounir concerts for years. When she last went to see him with her daughter, she found herself to be the oldest fan in the crowd. “Young people listen to music that was released years before they were born; that’s not something you find at other singers’ concerts,” she says.
Naglaa Abou Bakr, Daoud’s wife, was equally amazed to attend Mounir’s concerts and find people of absolutely all ages “jumping and singing with him, not letting him go off stage.”
Mounir continues to release new music; his latest track draws on Nubian folk. However, younger generations are attached to his older sound and the nostalgia it awakens. “When my friends and I hang out, we rarely ever play anything that was released after 2012. Something has changed in the arrangement of his new tracks, and it sounds more like [generic] pop,” says Ali. “My connection with Mounir is about homesickness for a home I’ve never been to. His new music doesn’t sound like home.”
“She’s comparing him to the Mounir of the ‘80s and ‘90s, but there are so many valuables in the equation that are no longer there,” says Abdulghaffar, arguing that many people working in music today cannot live up to the legendary writers and composers that Mounir collaborated with at the beginning of his career. “He’s choosing from the best there is right now.”
Beyond Egypt, Sudanese Nubians have their own relationship with Mounir’s music. Whenever she hears his songs, Sudanese engineer Yara Alsiddig remembers her grandmother, the last member in her family to speak Nobiin fluently. “She always translated these songs and broke down these Nubian concepts for us,” remembers Alsiddig.
A Living Legend
After four prolific decades, Mounir’s fans and family are amazed that someone with such a grand legacy can be so humble, easy to approach, and utterly unconcerned with money. “He inspires me to also try to do things in my own way,” says Abdulghaffar.
With a chuckle, Daoud remembers a time Mounir was set to perform in Beni Suef and found that many people had snuck into his concert without paying for a ticket, so he decided to perform for free. Another time, Daoud invited him to sing at his university, promising to give him the ticket revenue. Mounir wouldn’t take the money, saying, “I’m a singer, not a businessman.”
According to his relatives, Mounir lives for his music and his community. He refuses to give up his singing career despite health issues and is currently constructing a studio for African musicians next to his house by the Nile in Aswan. His legacy, which inspired many other musicians to venture off the traditional classical path and which brought Nubian culture to the forefront as something that is not foreign, but Egyptian, cannot be overstated.
Most importantly, he continues to live up to the perception that he is merely one of the people, an achievement most kings and presidents can only aspire to. “Until today, if you go and knock on Mounir’s door, he will open and say ‘come in,’” says Naglaa Abou Bakr. “You don’t need an appointment.”
